Mural
by Momosportif
Summary: This is rated M because it is a lemon but it's only a lemon if you wish it to be a lemon. Metaphors can be read two ways. Kanda thirsts to know his gensui's art but the general himself is found to be ignorent of its true definition. Hoshino's boys. Enjoy!


Dedicated to the well-known and well-loved Kuro666, without whom the TiedollKanda spirit within me may have long ago died. :) My only hope is that I do not disgrace the worthy authress with my unworthy writings.

Please enjoy.

-bows-

* * *

It was only a matter of time before it became too hard to resist. It was only a matter of time before I caved into my feelings; I'm barely human but barely human is still painfully human. And it was just that 'matter of time' that found me on the edge of his easel at long last.

He woke so slowly.

"How do you do it?"

"Hm?"

"Teach me, sensei. Show me how to make your 'art'."

"Now? But it's-"

I felt the word evaporate off his sizzling skin and all the heat of fear, uncertainty, and repulsion raising to stroke it's warm fingers across my face.

"Teach me, sensei." I whispered so quiet that he felt it, couldn't hear it. And I set my lips to making inspiration wherever I could, wherever he would let me.

It began.

Light first, hesitant. Even the most practiced artist has to start in blank, empty hesitation and I knew nothing so it was a slow start, achingly slow. I could not say who was the teacher and who was the student for a long time until, after drowning in unsure random sketching, he made a dark stroke, a deep stroke and I followed as best I could and we started to see where we were going, stroke, by stroke, by stroke.

He was more and more a teacher and less and less a general.

I was accepted. I was good enough to make it okay when it was so very not okay at all and I put all my nothing-heart into my first dark, deep stroke.

He liked it.

Now we were getting faster, surer- thinking less. Knowing more. Our art was taking shape from a framework of blackening wisps of suggestions of ideas of breaths.

Then color.

I breathed fast and surprised, it was so bright next to only white and only black but I did not have time for breath. I had to follow because he went on- a broad splash in the middle of everything, a small dab in the corner, a quick streak down the side, then the other side- and I finally tried my own unpracticed hand- slow spatters over anything near me, slivers of vibrance tentatively slashed in the center- until we were matched and took turns, one after another trying to out do ourselves with each display.

He was more and more an equal and less and less a teacher.

In our game of colors I had time to rest some moments, step back and look at what we'd done. It was beautiful, (then comes my stab at proving to him I could contend until his chance to prove the same returns) so very beautiful, (now I must improve it even further, wondering all the while if he's considering our creation like I do until I am free to observe again) especially with colors. I cannot name them but I see them there, feel them there now that I am used to them.

Strokes again.

The dyed lines must be bold again so we make them darker and deeper, standing out against all colors, any colors so that, in all their darkness, they are really the brightest. We worked slowly, lazily almost because our task was so easy, so simple after what we'd been through but it was no less pleasurable.

He was more and more him and less and less an equal.

But I was happy to be me and to be less in being me. I could almost find completion in our work, our art, for the first time in all my years. We had forever been at odds, me and art, art and me, but I was beginning to see things clearly for the first time now that I had broken. And it was so beautiful, too beautiful.

Too, too beautiful.

I should not have been there, I should not have broken, I should not have caved into my feelings, should have kept resisting-

Light.

Light and light and light-

Shadow.

So much, so heavy, so suffocating, so much more than I could stand- too much, too heavy, too suffocating, too much more than I could stand -and then I can see again, open my eyes if I wanted to but sometimes, some very some times, there is just too much bliss to force yourself into one more sense when all the pleasure is in only a few, one or two, touch and taste, or one, touch (and touch and touch and touch).

He was more and more us and less and less him.

I do not know if a word beyond 'beautiful' exists. That was our art, beyond a word or thought or taste or scent or sound. A feeling.

I relaxed, he relaxed, we relaxed; _I_ relaxed.

I breathed, he breathed, we breathed; _I_ breathed.

The colors were softer than imagination or canvas or a pillow and sweat-damp sheets with a blanket off and a fan on 'high', dulled by the shading that always comes with lighting that always comes with shading and we; _I_, took some time that could not be measured to consider what we had done, what we had made, what we had learned and for the fewest possible ticks of my nothing-heart I felt the heat of fear-uncertainty-repulsion reach for me with angry hands, but it was pulled back by his tired eyes and we looked at each other for as long as we needed to.

I was accepted. I was almost good enough. Almost.

Slow again.

Small, gentle touch-ups here and there to make it perfect in all its imperfection. The colors got blacker or whiter, whichever they wanted, and then the dark, deep black started to grey. Until it was empty again. Blank with guilt, but certainty. Guilty certainty.

Now I sit on the edge of his easel again, quiet again. He puts a hand on my back to tell me, command to me as a general, that I do not have to say thank you, do not have to say anything and I close my open mouth. He will not say anything either. It hurts to understand so much, know so much, after I've broken that I wish I knew before. Understand too much.

Too, too much.

His hand is still there and I realize that we are not finished, that I do not have to go anywhere and that, maybe even, he does not want me to go anywhere.

Maybe even, I am good enough.

I lay back down beside him and, before I know it, we start again, thin lines, thin hopes; a sketch. I lay next to my general, my teacher, my equal, my him, myself and I smile.

But sometimes (some very some times) I wish I was the viewer and not the painter.

* * *

Any questions? Feel free to ask. :) I will answer with as much guilty certainty as I can muster...


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